


The Spider and the Fly

by SkyEverett



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes and related fandoms
Genre: Community: wholockians, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, John tries to flirt with Clara, Richard Brook is Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Wholock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3432392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyEverett/pseuds/SkyEverett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being resurrected by his followers, the Master escapes with a new body, but one that is dying rapidly and is in a constant stage of ravenous hunger.  In another location, Jim Moriarty wakes up with the echo of a laugh in his mind and decides to follow it.  The Doctor and Clara ally with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to stop the two from becoming a major threat.  There's just one catch, though.  If they fail, the Tenth Doctor will die and all of the events from the Eleventh Doctor's run will cease to exist...including Clara's final attempt to save the Doctor's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Echo

   It is said that in the final days of Planet Earth, everyone was having dreams.  Humans dream about many things, but they always have nightmares.  It is impossible to find a human who has never had a nightmare.

   And in the small island known as Great Britain, many of the people dreamt about the year that never was.  They all experienced it, all took part in it, but they forgot.  Many perished in the year that never was, but they are alive and well today.   They merely forgot.

   Funny thing about a dream, is that as soon as you wake up, you see and remember it with perfect clarity.  Then you blink, and it escapes your memory like breath on a mirror.  That’s why people only remember the feelings that came with them.

   That’s how nightmares are formed.  One can never remember the dream, but one can remember the fear that came with it.

   But some people—some very special people—can remember dreams.

   And one young man was awakened by a dream in the middle of the night.  He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a nightmare, because it didn’t scare him.  But it would have been scary.

   To a normal, ordinary, _boring_ person.

   He remembered the dream, clear in his head, but one thought about the outside world wiped it cleanly away, back into his subconscious.

   Well, except for one part.

   The sounds in dreams are even harder to remember, but this man wasn’t _normal_ , so one sound in the dream stuck with him _._

   A laugh.

   A joyful, triumphant, psychotic laugh.

   Upon hearing it, the young man’s curiosity grew and grew until it peaked.  This laugh almost seemed to be calling to him specifically.

 _The laugher,_ thought the man, _has a superior mind._

_Like mine._

   Wearing nothing but jeans, an old T-shirt, and a tan jacket, the man with two identities got up and followed it.

   And that is how our story begins.


	2. An Old Legend

   “Come along, Clara,” called the Doctor, grinning.  Said companion walked into the console room at the Doctor’s call with her brown eyes and her smile. 

 _One day she’ll have to leave you_ , whispered a voice inside his head.  _Just like all the others_.

   “She wouldn’t,” he murmured, pushing his doubts away.  “Not my impossible girl…”

   “What was that?” asked Clara, now on the other side of the console.

   “Nothing,” the Doctor said, walking around the console to join her on the other side.  “So, where to this time?  End of the World?  Beginning of the World?  Y’know, there actually is a physical, existing end to the world.”

   “Silly, even you know the Earth’s round; there’s no _end_ to it,” laughed Clara.

   “Yeah, but there is a point in the Earth’s atmosphere where ‘Earth’ ends and ‘space’ begins,” answered the Doctor.  “I’ve gone past it many a time, but I’ve never actually tried to land the TARDIS there cause there really isn’t a landing area…who knows what that could entail!”

   “Well then, let’s find out.”

   “Alright then,” whispered the Doctor, laying his hand on one of the many levers that the TARDIS contained.  “Geronimo…”

   Suddenly, the cloister bell sounded and the TARDIS shuddered.  The two inside tried to keep their balance as the time machine swayed back and forth like it was having a fit.  “Doctor?” yelled Clara, trying to conceal her fear.  “What’s going on?  Does this usually happen?”

   The Doctor was just as stunned as Clara.  He quickly grabbed the TV screen that hung beside the console and looked into it.  The TARDIS showed him a single location on a single day.

 _One that had already come to pass_.

   It was the day that the song had begun to reach its conclusion.  The day his greatest enemy came back from the dead.  But this time, someone was with him.  Someone who wasn’t supposed to be there, doing something that he wasn’t supposed to do.  _How can the past do that?  The past is definite, it can’t change!_

   “How?!  How can this happen?” yelled the Doctor.

   “How can what happen?” asked Clara, struggling to keep her footing and go to him.

   “Clara, plans have been canceled, it’s time to visit an old friend.”  The Doctor began to flip switches and levers.  With a final jerk, the TARDIS slid into the Time Vortex.  Clara relaxed, but the Doctor kept his shoulders tensed.  He couldn’t allow himself to relax.  Not now, not when his life hung in the balance.

   “An old friend?” Clara asked seriously, taking note of the Doctor’s tense appearance.  “You’ve never really talked about any of your friends.”

   “Well, he probably doesn’t remember me,” answered the Doctor.  “He was a kid then.”

   “Is he likeable?”

   “I don’t think you would like him, but his companion would probably take a liking to you.”

   “His _companion?_   Is he like you?”

   The Doctor paused.  “Yes, in a sense, he is.”

   “Well, what is it that the two of you have in common?”

   The Doctor was silent.  Finally he answered “A story.  In the real world…we both don’t exist.  We’ve both faded into legend.”

   “Okay, well—what legend?” asked Clara.

   “Sherlock Holmes,” answered the Doctor.

   Clara laughed.  “Oh, come now, Doctor, that’s just a story.  Now are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”

   “No, he’s real,” continued the Doctor.  “He’s living in modern-day London.”

   Clara’s eyes grew wide.  “You’re serious.”

   The Doctor glanced up at her and—not for the first time—took in the fact that she was pretty.  “You should probably stay away from Watson; he’ll be getting married in a few years.  And the wedding is a fixed point in time, no changing that.”

   “Oh my god,” whispered Clara, turning away with her hand over her mouth.  “221B Baker Street, John Watson, the pipe and hat, everything…I’m going to meet Sherlock Holmes.”


	3. Four Different Identities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to really be careful when handling this chapter. I'm sorry if Moriarty and the Master seem out of character to you, but when handling my two favorite villains at one time, I have to tread lightly.
> 
> So, with that warning out of the way, I give you Chapter 3!

   Jim didn’t expect the source of the voice to be coming from a dumpster.

   He had walked for about half an hour, wandering around London, when he found what he had been looking for in the slums: a man with bleach-blond hair and a bit of stubble on his jaw sitting on what looked like a barrel, finishing off what looked like a drumstick.  He was wearing a navy blue hoodie, black sweatpants, and a red T-shirt underneath the hoodie.  His eyes were wide and crazed with savagery, but showed the slightest glimmer of intelligence, of potential.

   “You finished?” asked Jim, hoping to spark a conversation.

   The man’s head shot up and looked at the consulting criminal head to foot.  “Who are you?”

   “Nobody,” answered Jim.  “Yet.  I heard something strange about thirty minutes ago and came to investigate.  Rough night?”

   The man barked out a laugh in return.  “You could say that.”  He looked around through other parts of the garbage bags he was currently sitting next to.  “God, I am _so_ hungry.”

   Jim was beginning to regret coming out.  This was just another homeless man trying to look for food.  Pathetic. 

   _Wait…_

   Upon a closer look, Jim noticed that this man actually looked incredibly familiar.  He had seen him on the telly, on the news.  “Prime Minister Saxon?”

   “Ha,” snorted the man.  “What a fun time that was.  Prime Minister.  King of the World.  Master of all.”

   _Fact: Prime Minister Harold Saxon had a short term due to his insanity and assassination._

_Fact: He organized a televised broadcast from aliens more commonly known as the Toclofane._

_Fact: He attempted to rule the world and even ordered one of the Toclofane to kill President Winters of the USA._

_Fact:  It cannot be denied that he falls under the same type of genius as Hitler and Napoleon._

_Fact:  He was assassinated by his wife, Lucy Saxon and cremated by the witnesses._

   Jim could not believe his luck.  A man of superior intelligence…and he had escaped death itself.  Despite the insanity, Jim believed the two of them could work together.  He had no intention of sharing his position with Mr. Saxon, but it wasn’t every day that someone rose from the dead.

   “My name is Richard Brook,” he said.  Giving a name was always a sign of trust and willingness to negotiate.  To the rest of the world, Jim Moriarty was merely a shadow, a name without a face.

   “What would you want with me?” asked Saxon, looking at Jim like he was looking at a feast.  Jim found that a bit unnerving.  That would be the first thing to fix.

   Jim slipped into his deducing state of mind and assessed Saxon’s current position. _Extremely hungry, poor, just ran a long way, insane, maybe sick…_ Jim paused.  _Dying._

   “Come with me,” he invited.  “I have food.”

   Something sparked in Saxon’s feverish gaze.  “Why?  There’s a catch with you humans, there always is.”

   Jim raised his eyebrows.  _‘You humans’?  He’s speaking like he’s not._   But he shrugged, spread his arms, and laughed.

   “Why not?  I’m a criminal mastermind!  I pull the strings in the London underground, and my networks reach across oceans.  It’s always nice to meet another not-boring person; I spend so much time with idiots these days, and now I seem to be meeting all sorts of interesting people.”

   Saxon gave Jim a half-smile.  “What’s in it for me?” he asked.

   Jim was all too happy to return it.  “Didn’t you hear me?  I can ask anyone to do something and they’ll do it.  Everyone has a weak point.”  For emphasis, Jim turned his palms upward and gestured to Saxon.  “I can help you with your condition.”

   Saxon grinned, put a hand to his head, and clutched it like he had a killer migraine.  “Oh, you think you can _fix_ me?  That’s funny.  That’s _side-splitting_ funny.”

   Jim shrugged.  “Maybe not entirely, but if my deductions are correct, you’re a dead man walking, Mr. Saxon.”

   _“No,”_ snarled Saxon, standing up for the first time since their meeting.  He stood about an inch taller than Jim himself.  “That’s _not_ my name.  Harold Saxon doesn’t exist, he _never_ did!”

   Jim cocked his head.  So this man had an alter ego too?  He was beginning to draw similarities between them.  “Then who are you?  Do tell.”

   “I.  Am.  The _Master,”_ he answered, pronouncing each syllable carefully like he was talking to a child. 

   Supposedly it was a terrifying sentence, but Jim only curled his lip.  _Bit vain, are we?  Well, I can’t say that I’m not._

   “All right…Master,” answered Jim, wincing inwardly.  Why should he be saying that?  _He_ was the top dog, the one in charge.  _He_ was the one with all the power.  “Come on.  Let my men see what they can do.”

   The Master regarded Jim for one more moment before stepping over decaying piles of garbage.  Jim turned and walked back toward his house.  It was now the wee morning hours, and he would have to switch locations soon.  But he did have a few doctors willing to bend to his command.  He could solve the problem of the Master’s oncoming death easily.  There were a few members of his network that had been part of the Saxon cult.

   It was the threat of what the Master would bring with him that made him shudder.  _But then,_ he thought gleefully, shoving his fear away,  _that would make the game so much more fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what does Moriarty want with the Master? Will this be the beginnings of an uncanny partnership, or the means of chaos? Well, you'll have to wait and find out, won't you? Next chapter: Sherlock and John meet Clara and the Doctor.


	4. Sherlock and the Doctor

   “Alright, here we are, 221B Baker Street,” exclaimed the Doctor as he landed the TARDIS.

   Clara was beside herself with nervousness, but she ran her fingers through her hair once and straightened her dark red jacket. “Okay, I’m ready,” she breathed. “Here’s to meeting the greatest detective in the world.”

     The Doctor and Clara walked out of the TARDIS and into what looked like Baker Street, London. Clara had driven past this very street a few times herself and even gotten lunch at Speedy’s; she could have stopped any time to catch a glimpse of a great detective legend. “So does he wear the cape and the hat?” she asked.

   “No, those are just part of the story,” answered the Doctor. “Cape, no, pipe, no, hat…well, he does look nice in a deerstalker.”

   “Oh my god, oh my god,” Clara kept repeating to herself. “This is surreal.”

   “Come now, Clara,” teased the Doctor as they walked up to a flat bearing the plaque 221B. “Isn’t everything we do surreal?”

   “Well, it’s not every day that you get to meet a story,” answered Clara.

   “He’s not a story,” replied the Doctor. “In fact, everyone thinks he doesn’t actually exist because I sort of accidentally made it that way.”

   “What?” asked Clara. “Why? What happened?”

   “Well, before I met you I traveled here once. Sherlock was about seven years old at the time, but he was still a brilliant little tyke. He woke up and saw me poking around in his shrubbery.”

   “What were you doing that for?”

   “I was looking for a swarm of Vashta Narada. Tiny little things. Anyway, he demanded to know why I was there or else he’d report me to the police. Which, of course, led me to show him my ‘police box’. I promised him one ride in it, but only if he kept his mouth shut about it. He promised he would, and I took him to Victorian London.”

   “You had him meet Arthur Conan Doyle, didn’t you?” asked Clara.

   “Oi, stop getting ahead of me!” scolded the Doctor, slightly put out that his companion ruined the best part of his story. “But yes, we met the young man at a salon while getting a cup of tea. He told me about his dream of becoming an author. Sherlock wasted no time in impressing Doyle. He also told Doyle all about his family…or other characters in the books.”

   “Don’t tell me Mycroft and Moriarty exist too!”

   “They do, actually, though Moriarty’s character was a stroke of complete coincidence, very rare,” the Doctor answered. “Even at this point in time, Sherlock has never met the consulting criminal. He hasn’t even met Irene Adler yet. But Moriarty,” he added with a darker look, “is the reason we’re here.”

   Clara raised her eyebrows, a bit apprehensive. “So Sherlock knows you, then?”

   “After I took him back home, I realized what I had done. Those books were going to become world-famous, so I erased his memory. He doesn’t remember anything about it—and if he does, he remembers it as a dream. I went back and altered Doyle’s memory as well; he doesn’t remember anything about the little boy who gave him all inspiration. Instead, I used the name of a doctor that could tell what condition his patients were in just by looking at them. His name was Joseph Bell, and he is credited as the man the consulting detective is based off of. Arthur Conan Doyle just woke up one night with names in his head, one of them being ‘Sherlock Holmes’.”

   “A doctor?” laughed Clara. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

   The Doctor grinned sheepishly. “I may have thrown in one or two inspirations as well. But that’s beside the point, time to meet the legend himself! Would you like to do the honors?” Clara nodded nervously and rapped four times on the door.

   After a few seconds, a little old woman answered the door. She wore a purple dress, a warm smile, and had short, curly brown hair. "Hello!" she chirped. "Are you here for Sherlock and John?"

   The Doctor noted Clara's slightly suppressed smile at those two names, and said—quickly, before Clara could answer, "Yes, that's right, we've got a case for Sherlock Holmes. We're Scotland Yard's newest, I'm the Doctor, and this is Clara. Not our real names, of course, but it's just a precaution."

   "You're Mrs. Hudson," Clara said, unable to contain her excitement.

   The old lady looked at her strangely. "Yes, that's me. I'm the landlady for Baker Street."

   "Good to meet you," Clara answered, extending a hand. Mrs. Hudson shook it, smiling all the more warmly.

   "Well, it's been nice," said the Doctor, "but I'm afraid time is of the essence with this case."

   "Of course," answered Mrs. Hudson kindly. "Don't let this silly old lady waste your time. Let me make you some tea." With one last smile, she disappeared into the building. The Doctor and Clara walked in after her.

   "Up this way," said the Doctor, climbing a set of stairs. Clara followed, her heart hammering in her chest. There was silence in the flat, and this only upped the feeling in Clara's mind that she was about to meet the greatest sleuth the world had ever known. She would have never gotten another chance like this, had she not decided to travel with the Doctor. She was experiencing the impossible with him; he just made Sherlock Holmes real to her. Maybe if she begged him, he could make Robin Hood real too.

   But that was all the time for fantasizing that she had—the Doctor had opened the door labeled 221B and practically waltzed in. Clara quickly followed.

   The flat was messy, for one thing. There were two windows on one wall and a metal bull's head between them. Two chairs—one sleek and black, the other rather shaggy-looking—were positioned by the fireplace, and the bookshelves surrounding the place had books and papers randomly shoved into every nook and cranny of them. There was a couch and an ottoman on the wall opposite the fireplace along with a map containing various lines and pictures of people. The remaining wall was not a wall at all, but an entrance to what should have been a kitchen, but had been transformed into a dirty, cluttered chemistry lab. It wasn't what Clara had expected, but it only dampened her spirits a little.

   It was easier, however, to differentiate between the man who rose from his chair to greet them and the one who stayed seated with an expression that practically screamed "Give me something good."

   The first man was short and everything about him, from his haircut, to his jacket, to his straight—almost stiff—posture breathed _military._ He had blond hair and wore a polite expression on his face as he all but skipped the Doctor and decided to extend his hand to Clara first. "I'm Doctor John Watson, at your service," he said, smiling. Behind him, the Doctor suppressed a grin and the one in the chair—most likely Sherlock, if Watson was standing in front of her—sighed in what sounded like annoyance.

   "I'm Clara Oswin Oswald, at yours," Clara replied, returning the smile.

   "And I'm the newest member of Scotland Yard, codenamed 'The Doctor'," interrupted the Doctor, handing Dr. Watson his psychic paper.

   Dr. Watson's eyebrows raised as he read whatever the paper was giving him. "Sherlock, I seriously think you should look at this," he said with an awestruck look on his face. The other man—Sherlock—held out one hand and John handed him the paper, still talking enthusiastically. "This man's better than Lestrade—!"

   "It's blank." Sherlock's voice was surprisingly deep and low compared to Dr. Watson's, and Clara's attention was immediately diverted to him when he spoke. His appearance was very different from what she imagined he would look like. His hair was black and curly, his skin fair, and his eyes a strange shade of ice blue. His expression changed to slight interest as he handed the paper back to Dr. Watson, who examined it again.

   "No, it says here that he's from Scotland Yard, one of the best people they've got—!"

   Sherlock slowly shook his head, and his curls swayed with the movement. "It's blank, John. A blank, ordinary piece of paper, nothing interesting about it. Who are you, really?" he added to the Doctor as he rose to his feet. He wore a black blazer over a white collared shirt with matching black pants. It was much simpler than the beige cape and deerstalker that Clara imagined him wearing, and he was tall—taller than the Doctor himself.

   Sherlock looked at Clara first. Even though he only looked at her for a second, Clara could see that his gaze darted around quite a bit; he never focused on one part of her specifically. He looked into her eyes, then at the fabric of her jacket, then the curve of her black flats all in a matter of moments. Memorizing her.

   Sherlock examined the Doctor's outfit, his hair, his face…but when Sherlock's ice blue gaze met the Doctor's hazel-green one, it stopped. For about ten full seconds Sherlock stared at the Doctor, and during that time, his expression changed from skeptical to suspicious, and from suspicious to downright confused. A corner of the Doctor's mouth curled up when it finally settled on open shock.

   "Who are you?" Sherlock repeated softly, this time with an edge of hostility in his voice.

   "I'm the Doctor," the Doctor replied, smiling fully now.

   Clara's breath caught in her throat. This was one of the rare moments when the Doctor actually looked like the powerful being he was, the madman with his box, the last Timelord in existence. He was staring down one of the biggest legends in human history, the man who could supposedly read people like an open book. And now Clara could see something that she had missed before this moment: Sherlock could not analyze the Doctor, couldn't read him. It was a terrible and wonderful moment.

   "Doctor who?" asked Sherlock, still using that same soft tone.

   "Just 'the Doctor'," he corrected. "I'm afraid I have a very grave situation on our hands. I need your help."

   Clara saw the answer in Sherlock's eyes. This was the biggest case of his career, quite possibly his life.  There was no way in hell that he was going to refuse it.


	5. Notes from the Author

Okay! I'm not dead, I promise! I haven't been on here in a while, but there is a perfectly plausible reason for that. I've started college, so schoolwork has been taking up most of my time. I've also been working on an original piece that is going to be a LOT bigger than any of my stories here. I also have a little writer's block on most of my unfinished fics, and I hope that I can get back on writing them soon. So even if it takes a few years and I don't mark them as discontinued, I WILL finish them--count on it.


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